In MDMA veritas
by ElliQuinn
Summary: It's been nice revisiting some early POI episodes. This is my take on Harold's thoughts on waking up the morning after "Identity Crisis". One-shot, complete.


Harold woke with a pounding headache, a vile taste in his mouth and a queasy stomach. For a moment he lay, clutching the woollen blanket around himself, trying to reassemble his scattered wits.

Dark wood panelling. The smell of musty books. His stomach gave a protesting heave and he swallowed. He was in the Library, lying on an old army surplus cot in a little alcove just past the periodicals. Close to the bathroom - good. He tried to sit up. As he swung his legs over the edge of the cot his feet knocked several empty plastic water bottles flying. They made a strangely loud "doinck-doinck" sound as they toppled over and bounced a little. His head gave another twinge and he almost collapsed back onto the cot.

 _What in the world happened to me?_

He had no memory whatever of … the last day? Or the last week? Frantically he searched his mind. The latest thing he could remember… Jordan Hester. A nice face, blonde hair, she liked Kafka… his eyes strayed to the floor next to the cot: _The Trial_ lay there, carelessly dropped, open face down. Tsking, he reached stiffly down to rescue the book, smoothing its old paper dust jacket and noting with dismay the (he feared) permanent bend in the spine where it had lain open. A first edition, too. The nausea was starting to recede as he sat there. _Oh. Oh, dear._ Memories started to return. _I believe you've drugged me…_

So how had he got here? Well, it was the Library after all. Only one person could have brought him here and put him to bed with a blanket and a supply of water. A stray memory intruded: _You don't_ _wanna talk?_ Panic seized him. Mr Reese's relentless curiosity. Dear God, what had he given away?

He stumbled to his feet and made his way back to the main computer station, placing a steadying hand on the bookshelves as he passed. Trembling, he called up the footage from the his cameras, hastily pulling the images from last night…

"Ask me anything," he heard himself say. There was a little pause as the tall figure of Mr Reese considered this. The camera caught the rueful smile on his face as he simply replied "Good night, Harold," and walked away. Harold heaved a sigh of relief. Then he froze as he heard himself say softly, "Good night, Nathan."

He sat down shakily in the chair. In vino veritas, or at least in MDMA veritas. Nathan: tall, handsome and fundamentally decent. Was his subconscious trying to tell him something about Mr Reese? His lips tightened. John was completely trustworthy, he was coming to realise. But this changed nothing. His secrets were still, well, _secret_. For good reason. For just a moment Harold ached to unburden himself to one single person who would listen, and not judge him or condemn him for the terrible decisions he'd made. But then he remembered his first meeting with Mr Reese in person when the man had bumped his wheelchair in the hospital in New Rochelle. If Mr Reese ever found out who was really responsible for his betrayal by his employers, his failure to save Jessica – their partnership, their… _friendship_ , might well be over. He realised suddenly that he simply couldn't let that happen.

"I'm sorry, John," he whispered. "I just can't." He killed the camera archive with a swipe and click of his mouse, and rose to seek the bathroom.

POI*POI*POI*POI*

As Harold retreated in the direction of the periodicals, Reese emerged from behind the bookshelf. He gazed meditatively at the computer station. He had seen this before, occasionally: the interrogation subject who genuinely wanted to talk. Not because of any pressure he was bringing to bear, simply because they couldn't stand to keep silent any longer. He actually liked those interrogations the best – the guy wanted to talk, you wanted to listen, just a case of getting to a point where everyone was happy. No enhanced methods necessary.

He rubbed the back of his neck. "You're a very private person, Harold," he murmured. "But I'm still going to keep trying."

With Harold now awake and ambulant, some refreshments seemed in order. Reese made his way out past the metal gate in search of coffee, black, and tea, sencha green, one sugar.


End file.
